


Fitting

by swooning



Series: A Song of More Satisfying Endings [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Pegging, Post-Season/Series 08 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swooning/pseuds/swooning
Summary: She keeps him. And sometimes she brings him a little treat.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: A Song of More Satisfying Endings [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087454
Comments: 14
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sameboots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameboots/gifts).



The trickiest part had been cleaning the plaster from Jaimie’s wooden hand before he woke. That, and waiting for the cast to dry in the first place. Brienne had watched the sun rise, softly tapping a toe, wishing she’d thought to use wax instead to take the impression. It would’ve cooled instantly, and she could’ve worked any residue into the wood instead of having to wait and then scrub all the telltale grayish sludge from between the index and middle fingers while praying Jaime would stay asleep throughout. 

Getting the cast to a discreet woodworker had been easier, because he worked in the armory and Brienne was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. 

“As the hilt of a wooden sword,” she’d explained. “Turned and carved to match this in shape and size. Only with no space between the two...cylindrical parts.”

He’d pulled out a set of calipers and started making notes immediately. “It would be too small. Unless the sword is for a small child?” 

She considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “No. A rapier’s weight, but for an adult. Keep the circumference but extend the length, to maybe...” Spanning her fingers wide against the side of the mold, she showed him the size she wanted and let him measure. “It can be a bit thicker at the quillon, if you must.” 

“Still, an awkward proportion.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

She tapped her fingers sharply on the workbench and held his gaze until he looked away. His expertise protected him only so long as he followed orders. He picked up the quill he’d been taking notes with and drew a quick sketch on the parchment. Asked her a few clarifying questions. Should it be varnished? No, only polished and waxed. Should the cylinders retain this slight curve, or be straightened out? Curved, definitely curved. 

At some point, between perusing the measurements and adjusting the sketch, he stopped, glancing quickly at Brienne with wide eyes and mouth agape, then looking away and pretending to sketch so frantically he snapped the quill. 

“Apologies, Lord Commander.” Blushing. The man was blushing, cheeks scarlet as a midsummer rose. “I, ah, think I have the gist of it now. It will take me only a few days. I would recommend we use the strongest, most flexible wood for this, this, this...”

“Project?” She suggested. 

He nodded fervently, eyes still glued to his page. “Project, yes.” 

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands.” And then, because his embarrassed trembling annoyed her, she snapped, “It isn’t for me.” And immediately regretted it. 

His gaze traveled to the wall beside her as confusion layered itself over the other emotions playing out across his face. “Of course not, Lord.” 

“Oh, for...just have it finished in three days’ time. And tell no one.” 

She must have looked frightening by then, because the little mouse fairly squeaked his assurance. She left him already selecting a suitable length of hardwood from the stock of lumber he kept at hand. 

As recently as autumn, she would have been too mortified to even contemplate the idea of her “project,” much less draw an artisan into preparations for actually doing it. Now she took a certain perverse pride in knowing he would do her bidding and not speak of it, even if he’d guessed what she wanted the thing for. Well...approximately what she wanted it for. He knew it would mean his head to break her trust. She would have preferred to command only through loyalty and a sense of common purpose, but she would take fear if she had to. Winter hadn’t crushed her spirit, but it had tempered her idealism. 

If it took fear to keep him from telling people the Lord Commander wanted to fuck a piece of wood shaped like a dead man’s fingers, then fear it would have to be.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaime crept along the game trail, alert to every sound. Things he was happy to encounter that afternoon: rabbits, fowl, perhaps a starving deer he could take down in one shot. Things he would much prefer to avoid: bears, boars, and wolves. 

As the de facto groundskeeper of this small lodge at the edge of the Kingswood, he had a remarkably easy job. Nobody but Brienne and his brother Tyrion ever visited, and neither of them cared to hunt, so he was largely free to ignore any animals he didn’t mean to eat or share with the household. That did mean, however, that wild things ran unchecked in this part of the wood. He didn’t bother them, and he hoped they would extend him the same courtesy.

He was the first to admit he was a terrible groundskeeper, but his employer didn’t seem to mind. 

A snap in the underbrush to his right sent his heart racing, hairs on his neck rising as he pivoted and raised the crossbow strapped to his arm. Delicately, silently, he readied a bolt, and was rewarded a few seconds later with a flash of creamy white against the stark snow. He loosed the bolt, catching the lean winter hare through the neck. 

It was still twitching when he approached, but had stopped by the time he managed to pull the bolt free. 

He stuffed the hare in a sack and set out for home, somewhat less cautious now in the silent woods. As he walked along in the lengthening shadows, he thought how he’d word the letter to Tyrion, thanking him for the crossbow contraption he’d dreamed up from his clever, warped little mind. Nothing too nice, of course. Something along the lines of, “It’s clumsy and ugly, brother, much like you. But I suppose it works well enough.” It didn’t do to flatter Tyrion, even if he was one of the few people who knew Jaime was alive and well and living scarcely ten leagues from King’s Landing. His brother was more than pleased enough with himself already. 

With such happy thoughts on his mind, Jaime was fully in the open on the path from the wood to the lodge when he saw the horse being led to the barn. A tall, rangy, chestnut mare, rider still standing in the yard. Looking out for him. A chill raised the hairs on his neck again. 

He was growing soft here. Soft and stupid and lazy in this pleasant prison. Anybody else might be here to kill him, and he would’ve have walked straight into view without a care for his own hide. 

Even Brienne might finally be here to kill him. That thought never completely left his mind. He would always deserve it, and could never deserve her. But his abdomen tightened, blood flowing swiftly from his head to his cock as he anticipated an evening of attempting to prove himself a changed man. Or the same man, probably, but her creature entirely. 

She eyed the hare skeptically as he approached. “It’s...small.” 

“A brace of his cousins is waiting in the cold room.” He sniffed the frigid air, catching traces of what he hoped was a roast or stew. “Or perhaps already on the fire.” 

She nodded, started to pull her gloves off, then thought better of it. Her breath plumed away to mingle with his, visible puffs of heat and tension. This part was never easy. Cosy domesticity sat stiffly on both of them. They had to sidle around it every time she visited, both pretending not to notice until they were already in the middle of it. 

Jaime had always loved the look of girls in winter, wind-flushed cheeks and stray tresses of hair escaping fur-lined hoods. Loved their vulnerability to the cold, how it made them coyly ask for help to stay warm. 

Brienne, on the other hand, looked exactly like a soldier who’d just had a hard hour’s ride through a frozen landscape. Face chapped red, lips dry, an incongruous dampness sticking her hair to one cheek. He could tell which way the wind had blown on her ride, from the direction her hair was now freezing into spikes. She sniffled loudly. Looked down her long, windburned nose at him. Turned on her heel and headed for the door, leaving him to keep up or not, as he would. 

“I should get this to Bess,” he called after her, brandishing the sack full of hare. His other arm was still encumbered by the crossbow contraption; he used it to keep the door from closing after her, then had to use one foot to pull it shut behind him once he was inside. 

She was halfway up the stairs already, and didn’t look back. “Start the kettle while you’re there. I need a bath.” 

It took Jaime, Bess the cook, and Bess’s husband Cam to fill the tub fast enough to keep the water warm. The pair were from Tarth, loyal to the Lords of Evenfall, and if they knew who “Jay Waters” really was, they never let on. They weren’t bad company, which was fortunate as he so rarely saw anyone else. 

Now they departed quietly, leaving the groundskeeper and their mistress alone in her bedchamber. A fire was crackling, a share of roast coney and fresh bread was on the table, and warm, spiced wine took away the last of the chill as Brienne relaxed into her bath. 

Frost melted from her hair as Jaime watched, intrigued. Her breasts floated enticingly at the water’s milky surface, rising into view with each breath. She’d asked for soap and sweet oils, so he’d added them, and it lent an air of mystery to the bath. Not that her body ever seemed to change. It was always lean, bow-taut, muscled like that of a young man in his prime. Yet somehow the most tantalizing thing he’d ever seen. He never tired of her. A mystery indeed.

Jaime had dropped his heavy coat in the kitchen, and removed his doublet as soon as Bess and Cam cleared the room. He had one boot off when Brienne gestured at him with her cup of wine. 

“Take this. I need to wash my hair.” 

He clumped over obligingly, carrying her cup to the table before he prised off his other boot. “How was your ride?”

“Bloody cold.” She ducked under, wetting her hair and combing her fingers through it before emerging. “The road is a mess. It took me two hours, and a good quarter of that was between the village and here.”

“You risked frostbite to see me? I’m flattered.” 

“I needed a haircut.” 

“Now I’m less flattered.” 

“Just fetch the shears.” She ducked under again. 

Jaime retrieved the shears, which Brienne had stolen from some unsuspecting seamstress in King’s Landing, from the chest under the window. The wind had picked up, howling around the eaves, but the lodge was snug. Brienne’s countryman maintained it well, and with the shutters closed against the impending darkness, it was scarcely colder by the window than across the room. 

He heard a splash, and turned to see her standing in the knee-deep water, gleaming like a column of white marble. The only time that sight hadn’t stirred his loins was when he was near death from a fever. Now it deepened his hunger from theory to practice, bringing his cock half erect in a heartbeat. Hurrying back, he offered her a hand to help her out of the tub, a thick cloth to dry herself, and a fur robe to wear. One thing at a time. He was as poor a squire as he was a groundskeeper, but her patience never felt like pity because he knew she had none for him. As a life of penance went, it wasn’t so bad. And certainly more effective than being hounded naked through the streets of King’s Landing, which had done Cersei no good whatsoever.

Once Brienne was wrapped in fur, she picked up her wine again, cradling the cup as if her fingers were still cold. 

“You should eat while the food is still warm.” He pulled out a chair for her, shamelessly smelling her hair as she sat down. 

“And you?”

“I ate in the kitchen.” He’d earned a scolding and some scalded fingertips stealing a generous piece of meat and half a loaf of bread to sustain him while he toted water. Then had to eat it in snatches between trips, since he couldn’t carry water and eat at the same time. “I could cut your hair while you eat?” It would save time. 

She shrugged and picked up her fork. “As long as no hair ends up in the food.” 

He smiled and picked up the shears, clicking them open and shut then asking her the same question he always asked before he started. “Do you trust me?” 

“With this,” she allowed.

He’d cut her hair since her third visit to the lodge. A test of her nerve and his loyalty, he supposed. The first time it had happened, he’d insisted, because she’d looked a fright. “It’s like a pile of straw when it gets too long,” he’d said, “and it doesn’t suit the Lord Commander to look unkempt.” 

“You’re going to lecture me about how to lead the Kingsguard? You? Here? In my house?” 

But she’d let him do it, because she’d known he was right. Image mattered in positions of power, whether she liked it or not. He’d brought up a pair of kitchen shears and presented them for her inspection. “Do you trust me?”

“Not remotely,” she’d said that first time. 

“Not particularly,” she’d said the next time. 

The third time or so, she’d softened a bit. “I really shouldn’t.” And then, from one second to the next, they’d gone from staring at each other to kissing ferociously, tearing clothes off, scratching and biting and wrestling their way to climax. He cut her hair the next morning, before she returned to King’s Landing. 

“With this” was a step forward. A step he’d worked for over the course of months. Over a year now, if he stopped to think about it, although in the endless winter, time seemed to lose all meaning. The crown lands might not get the constant snow and ice of the north, but this was still the coldest winter by far in living memory, with snow in King’s Landing more days than not and long stretches of bitter cold that froze the land solid. 

Jamie brushed Brienne’s fine, unruly hair, smoothing the drying locks and assessing where to cut. Then he carefully parted a few hairs from the rest with the tip of one shear blade, and started snipping.


	3. Chapter 3

The fire was warm, the fur robe warmer still, and the hare was roasted to perfection. Brienne nibbled a morsel at a time, following each bite with a chunk of bread, pretending not to care about the blades near her throat.

The metallic _schnick_ of the blades had terrified her the first time. She had no idea what had possessed her to allow it, and fully believed Jaime might take advantage of the opportunity to plunge the blades into her heart and exact whatever twisted vengeance he had secretly sought.

After he’d confessed that Cersei was still alive, probably enjoying the balmy breezes of Lys or the south shore of Essos, Brienne felt slightly more confident he didn’t mean to end her. And after that one night—a bad idea, she knew it then, and it hadn’t turned into any better an idea through repetition—she had let her guard down almost entirely. Almost.

He might not mean her harm, but he was still Jaime Lannister. Harm followed him wherever he went. Eventually it might follow him here, and it remained to be seen whether he would or could put her needs ahead of his own if it came to it. She would be a fool to trust him that far, and in fairness to Jaime he’d never asked her to. Only to remain alive and serve her.

A snippet of hair fell on the table beside her hand.

“It didn’t hit the food,” he commented before she could. He swept it to the floor with the rest, a pale birds’ nest of shorn locks. “I’m finished. It’s a masterpiece.”

After he made a few attempts to brush more hair from her shoulders, she waved him aside and stood. She let the robe slip down, taking the annoying, prickly hairs with it, and left it on the chair as she strode across the room to the chair by the fire.

If she didn’t do it tonight, and soon, she might lose her nerve or second-guess herself. She hated both those feelings, so she wouldn’t risk them.

She took a deep, steadying breath, and pushed up the flap of the pack she’d left on the chair. “Do you trust me?”

She’d expected him to pause—the question had never been asked in that direction—but he answered right away.

“With my life.”

But when she turned to study his face, she saw a smug expression she knew all too well, though she hadn’t seen it in some time. His mask of humility had slipped before for a second or two, but in this moment she saw him clearly, the man she’d fallen in love with despite herself. The man she’d come to despise herself for loving. For a time. But given more time, more learning, more strength, she’d grown into a different appreciation of him.

Indeed, she felt it safe to say she now knew Jaime Lannister better than he knew himself. Which was the only defense against how well he knew her.

Returning her attention to the large, awkward pack, she drew out the wooden sword, letting the cloth wrapping drop to the floor. Then, from deeper in the bag, she retrieved the small, tightly corked bottle of oil.

“As good for the skin as it is for the wood,” the craftsman had assured her with a punctuating lift of his brows. “All kinds of skin, all kinds of wood.” She’d scowled at him for that, because it was overly familiar and she was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. She’d taken the oil but left him in no doubt as to the cost of any indiscretion on his part regarding the nature of her request.

Now she held the bottle up to the light, admiring the rich amber color as the fire played through it. Jaimie didn’t take the bait. He just leaned back against the table, arms crossed, face curious and more amused than she’d seen in months.

“You’re still wearing clothes,” she reminded him, as she strolled to the bed and dropped the practice sword against the furs with a satisfying whump. After setting the oil on the bedside table next to the candle, she crawled across the bed to kneel in the middle, toes tucked into the fur beneath her.

He had gotten better at disrobing, or perhaps he’d simply adapted his clothes to better suit a one-handed reality. He pulled his shirt off slowly, allowing her a moment to enjoy the view, then unfastened his trousers and simply walked out of them toward the bed.

Brienne snorted and stared at his feet pointedly. His gaze followed hers, then he sighed. He looked up and batted his eyes at her, shameless as a maiden who knows she’s the prettiest one at the dance.

“Brienne, it’s very cold.”

“There’s a roaring fire and a pile of fur.”

“It’s dangerous to catch a chill,” he insisted, but he was already stopping to peel off the short, thick, woolen stockings he’d taken to wearing at all times.

“It’s dangerous to cross me,” she countered sharply. She had been clear about the stockings on previous occasions.

“I am keenly aware.”

He was now naked, a state he wore with as much confidence as a full suit of armor. Invulnerable. Still smug. She’d see how long that attitude held tonight.

He sat on the bed and swung his legs up to sit facing her, knee to knee, eyes full of lewd promises she knew he meant to keep. He owed her his life, and was repaying that debt in the only currencies left to him: loyalty, trust, and a thousand or more little deaths.

Candlelight etched out his cheekbones as he leaned in to kiss her. Softly at first, a careful brush of lips and a hint of spiced wine on her tongue. He wanted to reserve himself, which didn’t suit her.

She nipped his bottom lip then held it firmly between her teeth, biting down until he whimpered. When he would have pulled back, she held his head to hers, knotting her fingers tightly into his hair and deepening the kiss until they were both breathing faster.

Jaime stole his hand up her side to palm a breast, thumb finding her nipple. She groaned as the shiver of heat echoed through her body to end as an ache between her legs. She’d been slick with anticipation all evening, but this fresh rush of need made her cunt wet as springtime.

That reaction used to distract her to fury at her body’s weakness and betrayal. Now she recognized it as power. She pulled Jaime’s hand from her tit and dragged it down, pressing his fingers against her cunt.

Jaime hummed in approval and broke their kiss as he angled his hand, burying two fingers inside her and pushing the heel of his palm against her clit. She kept her grip on his wrist and braced her other hand on his chest. Grinding her hips, she found the pressure she needed and leaned into it, sharpening her need to a lethal edge. When Jaime pushed a third finger inside her, she broke, crying out as the pleasure rushed through her body.

He chuckled, and she slapped his shoulder, still squeezing her upper thighs around his hand. “Quiet,” she gasped.

Jaime laughed outright and flexed his fingers, drawing another shudder of bliss from her.

She looked down and saw his cock at attention, hard and ready. For a moment, the temptation to mount him was almost too great. She needed him too much, always. Even still shaking from a climax, she wanted more from him. But tonight, “more”would look different. Sliding her hand from his shoulder, she gripped his cock firmly then met his eyes.

“Do you trust me?” She asked again, briefly wishing she could ask what she really wanted to. Was this right, did he understand her intention, was this what he wanted?

“Yessss.” He thrust his hips up into her touch. It cost him his balance; he had to pull his hand from inside her and slap it to the bed behind him, catching himself. His fingers brushed the hilt of the wooden sword. “Yes.”

She missed his fingers. Frustrated, she moved aside and gave him a push. “On all fours, then.” A second later, she remembered that wasn’t an option. “Or on your stomach?” _Damn_.

“A bit of both?” His voice was high and strained. He was already shifting, almost writhing into position, on knees and elbows.

She pressed a hand between his shoulders until he dropped his head to his folded arms. Properly penitent at last.

Shifting around him, Brienne retrieved the little vial of oil and worked the cork free. Jaime startled at the soft pop, then exhaled back into something like relaxation. His muscles gave him away, tight and trembling across his shoulders, flexing anxiously along the lengths of his thighs. When she moved around behind him and took up the sword, she saw he was tense all over. The muscles of his buttocks were flexed, nearly hiding his ass and testicles.

Still, there it was. Impossible to ignore, especially since it was visibly clenching. She’d seen it in passing, of course, even touched it in ways he seemed to enjoy. After he’d startled her by putting a finger in her ass when she came, she’d tried that on him as well, leading to the conversation that had given her this idea in the first place.

Apparently this would not be his first time at this, although he’d been hazy as to details. He seemed as nervous as she felt, but she wasn’t about to stop now.

Jaime gave the faintest, tiniest whimper. She stroked a hand up his leg like she might settle a fractious horse, then let her nails drag his skin on the way back down and enjoyed the guttural noise of approval it drew out of him.

He was still fit, but heavier than he’d been during the war, his lean soldier’s frame wearing winter padding. His buttocks were fuller now, and she couldn’t resist. She leaned forward and sunk her teeth into one plump cheek, pressing until he hissed and she could feel his skin denting. She lifted her head and watched the marks flush, tracing her fingers across the redness and pinching him to elicit another sound of mild dismay.

When she sat back on her heels, she could see he’d relaxed somewhat, widening the set of his knees. His muscles still worked restlessly, but now it was his hips, thrusting slowly into nothing. Brienne could see his balls now, and beyond them the base of his cock. It was so hard it nearly grazed his stomach, but it bobbed down gently each time he moved.

Perfect.

“Tease,” he muttered, and she slapped him on the bite mark. A red handprint bloomed on his pale skin.

She left him alone long enough to dribble oil on the sword hilt, slicking it over with her fingers. She felt the curves of the wood, so similar to the fingers of his false hand. Wrapped her hand around the whole thing, slid her fingers up and down, resisting the sudden urge to put it in her mouth. If she’d been alone, she would have slipped the sword hilt inside her. She was wet still, or again, so she might not have even needed to oil it. Her clit tingled at the thought.

Maybe another time. After scrubbing the sword hilt clean for about an hour.

Just in case, she poured a thin stream of oil down the seam of Jamie’s ass, then circled his asshole with a fingernail. She dragged the finger down to his balls, scratching lightly, then squeezing with her whole hand. He leaned back, increasing the pressure. Sighed when she released him.

It was time.

Brienne brought the sword hilt up, turning it so the curve of the fingers could enter him without her having to hold the whole blade up. She said a silent prayer that it wasn’t too big, that it would fit. Slowly, she pressed the blunted fingertips against his hole. He pressed back too quickly then winced away, panting.

“Don’t move,” she warned. She didn’t want to hurt him, not that way at least.

“Can’t help it.”

“Do better.”

She tried again, this time stopping him from moving with an iron grip on one cheek. It spread him wider, which ended up helping. This time he breathed out hard and bore down slowly, slowly on the pommel until the hardwood fingertips breached his asshole. He cried out as they slipped out of sight, and then kept making a string of sounds she’d never heard before but liked immensely.

When she pulled the hilt out an inch or so, then pressed it deeper, he started throwing in a curse every few seconds, his witty repartee completely abandoned in a stream of language that would make a dockside whore blush.

Out again, in again, then a careful rhythm. She watched warily until she could no longer ignore the pressing need between her own legs. Bracing her free hand against Jaime’s hip and straddling that leg, she started thrusting against her fingers in time with the thrusts of the sword in Jaime’s ass.

At one point he attempted to look back at her, and she stopped abruptly. “No. This isn’t for you.” Because she couldn’t take it, couldn’t take the pleasure of what she was doing to herself, and him, and also the weight of his attention.

When he hid his face in his arms again, she resumed, taking a moment to catch the pace again. A minute later she came hard, shivering against his back, nearly crying at how good it felt and how beautiful his bowed neck was. His vulnerability, offered up to her power.

 _I love you_ , she thought, but she wouldn’t say it. She wouldn’t say it. Because that, too, was something for her, not for Jaime.

When she regained a few of her scattered senses, she reached around his hips and found his cock, trying to stroke him in counterpoint to the motions of the hand she was using to fuck his ass with a copy of his own fingers. She couldn’t keep the tempo. It didn’t matter. Jaime bucked his hips twice and came, silent because he stopped breathing, his seed spurting into the furs below him for what seemed an unusually long time.

Brienne withdrew the sword as slowly as she’d started pushing it in, then tossed it off the side of the bed and collapsed next to Jaime. After a moment he lowered his hips and rolled to his side, pulling her close and studying her face almost frantically. His eyes were wide, his fine brow sheened in sweat. He was crying, but didn’t seem aware of it.

She wiped a tear from his cheek, rubbing it between her fingertips to prove to herself it was real. Jaime turned his head and pressed a tender kiss to her hand. He clutched her closer, pressing his forehead into hers.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. She hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against his. “I know you do.”

It was all she could give him, but it was fitting. She couldn’t have a life with him, she could only give him this much of herself. A few days every few months, sometimes less. Maybe one day things would change, and their lives would be different. But she wasn’t waiting for that day to come. She liked what they had, and the space he occupied in her heart. It was a small, secret place, and he fit perfectly.

And it was enough.


End file.
